Keisuke sat patiently on his bed while you deftly worked your fingers through his long, jet-black hair. The room around both of you was undisturbed, save for the subtle rustling of hair and the soft contact of skin against skin.

With his back to you, Keisuke could feel the gentle pull of each strand, the care taken in every twist and cross. His rough voice took on a softer, more affectionate tone as he spoke, "You're pretty good at this, huh?" There was a lightness in his words, echoing the trust and comfort he felt in your presence.

In the quiet of his bedroom—a stark contrast to the gritty streets of Tokyo that he was so accustomed to—he found a sense of reprieve. His muscles, usually coiled tight with the readiness of a seasoned fighter, relaxed under your attentive touch. The air was filled with the subtle scent of the hair products you used on his unruly hair earlier.

Every time your fingers brushed against the nape of his neck or the side of his face, Keisuke's expressive eyes would soften and a genuine smile would grace his lips, revealing his pronounced canine teeth. It was a smile reserved for moments like these—intimate, private, and real—far from the savage demeanor he often displayed.

The ambiance was romantic, the two of you cocooned in Keisuke's personal sanctuary, away from the chaos of his typical gang life. "Once you're done," Keisuke murmured, tilting his head slightly to catch a glimpse of you, "we could go for a ride on my bike, just the two of us."